


put a pretty polly in your pocket

by faorism



Series: triple berry crumble [1]
Category: Adventure Time
Genre: 90's Nostalgia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Cuddling & Snuggling, Gender Issues, Genderqueer Character, Misgendering (Accidental), Multi, Passing Mention of Underage Sexuality, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-05 23:18:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faorism/pseuds/faorism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Gumball finds himself, and a few other people too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	put a pretty polly in your pocket

**Author's Note:**

> While I doubt this will be too much an issue, I want to acknowledge the fact that I have written a personal essay for an anthology (currently in the editing stage) mentioning this fic. Given the specificity of my description and how few transcanons there are for this fandom, it is relatively easy to make the connection. I ask that anyone who sought this fic after reading the essay is respectful of my story, my irl name & life, and my fan accounts. Thanks.

Gumball is the only boy he knows with a Polly Pocket. He keeps his in his front left pocket, the heart shape an awkward protrusion that stretches the fabric of all his pale-colored corduroys. Because he always has the toy on him, no one but his father (who does the laundering in the household) can tell that the left side is an inch and a half larger than the right. His mother does notice a slight bruise on his thigh after the first week, but Gumball quickly learns how to extend his leg just right so that the plastic does not dig into his sensitive skin as he sits at his desk. 

With the adjustment in place and with a belt to keep his uneven pants to his waist, Gumball is permitted his toy, which he whips out during recess. It usually happens only once a week because most of the girls can't bring their Pollys every day and they also like playing freeze tag with the boys; but, at least Gumball always is prepared. 

When the day finally comes, there are at least five of them sitting in a circle on the ground, gravel sinking into their knees and palms. He slips out his bright pink heart and opens it with the satisfaction his eight-year-old self can hardly contain. Being slightly older than theirs, his Polly Pocket doesn't have the lights and delicate button-enabled mechanisms the others have. Nonetheless, everyone likes to play with Gumball's because it is a purple castle that had a huge gate that opened, and a yellow and pink throne, and a garden, and a four-poster bed. It even has a _knight's armor_ in the corner! 

Sometimes the girls trade their Polly dolls, but it's something Gumball could never ever do. He likes the others' but his is special. He named her Bubblegum to match his name; she too is a redhead, her eyes are blue like his are, and he imagines she has tons of freckles across of her face and neck and arms and back as well. 

The biggest difference is that Bubblegum's hair is up to her... _butt_. Coincidentally, Pepper Butler (not to be confused with that horrible Pepper Stevens) also never traded because the Polly looked like her except for the hair. When he complains to her about the difference between him and his Polly, she understands and says that she is going to grow an afro to be like her Polly when she grows up, so maybe Gumball could do the same. 

He doesn't think he wants to have his hair so long, but he still likes the idea of being like Bubblegum. When he comes up with adventures, he makes sure Bubblegum is cool, smart, and funny so that everyone likes her as much as he likes his friends. 

Of which he has many. Unlike the stories he'll hear when he's old enough to shave, stories of kids getting bullied over this kind of thing, no one bothers Gumball about his Polly. When he loses his first Polly doll, a guy from his class even steals one of his sister's extras to give to Gumball because Gumball cried so hard at her loss Ms Trunks had to pick him up. And although he could have hated the new Polly or thought of her as an inadequate replacement, she's the most perfect gift he's ever gotten up to that point of his life. She's new and special and different—wears her hair in braided buns and she's in hot pink pants and not a pale pink bubble skirt cut in cascading layers like Bubblegum's—but Gumball knows he doesn't need to cry anymore because this Polly is here for him. Since she also has red hair and his blue eyes, Gumball names her Bubblegum Two (but drops the "Two" when he plays to not embarrass her), and he loves her so hard that the original must feel it wherever she ended up. 

—

His father said that a bird may have picked her up and flown her to a nest. Now she was the first Polly ever to be so high. His mother said that maybe someone stepped on her, and she's somewhere in the gravel. One day, some lucky boy or girl will kick the stones and they'll find her and love her just as much as Gumball. Gumball, however, knows the truth: that she was washed away during the storm that cut recess short and made him forget her in his haste. The rain washed her away and down the gutter, like they learned in first grade. And then her tiny body floated down the river under the street and Bubblegum was smart and patient and ended up in the ocean, where she's having a disco dance party with fishies. 

  


* * *

  


His friends and the adults in his life are not quite sure where Bubblegum came from, but Gumball's mother always says she must have gotten it and his dad says no, it must have been him. They tell elaborate stories about how Gumball came to possess his Polly Pocket, but it always comes back to the colors. 

Gumball's favorite colors are the 3Ps: purple, pink, and peridot (technically the third is yellow, but the Trunks are adamant about using catchy names and acronyms if they can help it). Gumball wants everything to be at least one of the 3Ps because he thinks they are simply the best colors ever seen by people's eyes. 

The 3Ps mortify his parents. They can deal with the purple. But the pinks make the red in his hair and near-constant flush seem even more pronounced, and the yellows drain the paleness of whatever skin he hadn't managed to burn even with a near-constant layer of sunscreen. 

Despite their reservations over color schemes, they indulge Gumball's borderline militant whims. They buy his bright corduroys in the little girls' section, and his plain black coat has pink oval buttons. They get him toy cars in only those colors, and he plays with a doll or action figure if dressed in appropriate hues or if his parents paint a part of them to match. Even though he wanted a green comforter with a dinosaur on it, the pillowcase is canary yellow and so is his lamp. 

It only makes sense, then, to get Bubblegum's specific Polly Pocket, which features the 3Ps that Gumball so craves. 

In reality, Gumball finds it in his parents' shop, _Candy Kingdom_ , a realm which the Trunks lord over with a gentle hand. Founded by Ms Trunks' grandfather as an extension of his general store, the establishment's focus turned solely on sweets once Ms Trunks inherited it. She even added a tiny kitchen for handmade treats and her famous pies, and it is, unsurprisingly, a favorite spot for the neighborhood kids to meet up after school. 

On the day Gumball meets Bubblegum, he and a gaggle of his friends—mostly boys, today—crowd the aisles of _Candy Kingdom_. Their sneakers squeak as the children check every display, and two pairs of those shoes light up the faded linoleum tiling like fireworks. 

It took them an entire month, but they had found enough coins on the street and in between couch cushions to buy enough nickle and dime candies for a lion's share between them. Gumball can get candies whenever he wants, but still takes pleasure in the success of his pals and proudly assists his friends. Voice high with giddiness, he points a stubby finger at each of the towering glass jars of recently-added treats and lists their vices and advantages, like how the tiny olive-colored gummies look like snot when you chewed them and that adults lied since mints did nothing to make your breath smell good. 

With his advice and from their recollection from their last visits, the children make quick work of spending their coins. Their math is not the best, so Gumball pulls Mr Trunks away from the register to them. Patient with the endless transaction, Mr Trunks takes one coin at a time from their "banker," Pepper, in exchange for the appropriate amount of candy. 

As she tries to buy five of those booger gummies, Pepper drops a quarter. Mr Trunks laughs as the dozen or so children simultaneously gasp like it's the end of the world. Gumball, quicker to recover, follows the coin as it rolls off under a display stand. 

"I got it!" He cries, skipping to the display and falling to his knees, pressing his face against the tile even as the thought of icky floor germs horrifies him. 

Wide eyes scan the narrow space between floor and display. His mother keeps the shop nice and orderly but only moves these bulky stands every few weeks, so dust, leaves, and several dropped candies litter his line of sight. 

"Did you find it?" comes behind him. 

Because playing around with dirt went beyond the limits of his delicate constitution, Gumball gives up after a short moment. "No," he says with a heavy sigh. The children groan, but Mr Trunks magnanimously decides they can keep the snot gummies— _just this once, ya hear?_

Not one to waste time on defeat, Gumball pushes himself onto his knees to stand when he sees it. 

Stuck between two stands, behind a jar of slow-selling, sugarless Werther's Originals, rests a plastic heart with Polly Pocket written in fancy, peridot-tinted script. Friends and candy temporarily forgotten, Gumball reaches for the toy, not having a clue how long it has been there. It sits huge in his palm, shaded a pink that matches his nails. His mind—curious, young, infinite—races with what could be inside, the mystery both numbing and exciting him until his knees tense to prevent themselves from shaking. He remembers what his parents said about things he found: No matter how cute or nice, put them into the lost and found under the counter. If no one claimed it in a month, he could take it with permission. 

Gumball is a good kid, hates to get his parents mad, and wants to do the right thing. 

And yet, when someone asks what he was taking him so long, Gumball shoves the Polly case into his front left pocket and joins his friends without a word. 

—

He waits until he's alone in his room that night, up way past his bedtime but not at all sleepy. Armed with a small flashlight in the shape of a sundae, Gumball stares at the Polly case, wishing for it to be everything he wants and a bit afraid he'll be disappointed. When his eyelids start drooping and he cannot imagine anything new for it to be, he clicks the heart open and it's so much better than he could have ever expected. The castle doors are closed, so it's like a second treat to swing them open. Gumball does not take in any of this. He just sees the castle’s princess, his Bubblegum, sitting on the four-poster bed. She is a reflection of himself, and a smile creeps onto his lips. 

He may not know who left her, but—he thinks with an innocent finality—she was always his. 

  


* * *

  


He is fifteen and half the people he knows calls him Gumball and the other half Bonnibello, the latter of which is the name on his teachers' attendance sheets. He doesn't know which he prefers; his childhood nickname does not ring with unwelcome butchness, unlike Bonnibello, which falls from his mouth like a hard metal. 

Bonnibello, on the other hand, sounds like the name a guy his age should have. There's still a jovial bounce as he pronounces the twin sets of double letters (the _n_ s and _l_ s dragging like a smile) but there's also a weight to it, a heaviness that might arbitrarily counterbalance the ~~Bubblegum~~ Gumball within himself. Gumball loves badminton in gym class, but Bonnibello knows know to do the obstacle course and rope climb without falling. Gumball might know the rudimentaries to playing the triangle, xylophone, and synthesizer, but Bonnibello goes to a weekly piano lesson with one of his father's friends. 

It is Gumball—not Bonnibello—who stands in the aisle of a craft store. It is Gumball who takes two buses to get to here and Gumball who digs through their baskets of embroidery floss, absently picking up a few skeins to slip his fingernails under the wound threads, testing their weight. There is nothing to counter Gumball here: Bonnibello would never be as excited as Gumball is when he realizes that the selection of floss, though small, hosts a number of colors that would look absolutely exquisite on his next project. He imagines sewing a rose to the beige tunic he bought for $3 while thrifting (the tunic was made from handsome material, but had a disappointing lack of ornamentation that Gumball knows he can fix if given the time). 

For now, he plucks two small skeins of hazelnut and four of a strangely faded petunia. It is not nearly enough for a full pattern but perfect for highlights in an elaborate piece. That is what he tells himself, at least; even as he walks away from the baskets, Gumball acknowledges that he'll hoard these six spools, never using them unless necessary, and even then he'll cut barely as much as he needs. 

He smiles, thinking about how much he'll agonize for over the petunia, as the older woman working the register rings up his purchases. She is counting out Gumball's change when she nods towards him. 

"You know, my granddaughter loves Polly Pocket. Mind you, she's nine, but Eddie does have her something like seven of those." 

Gumball's initial confusion at her non sequitur abates when he realizes what he's wearing. While he prefers interesting cuts and fabrics, especially ones he can personalize, he has on a tight mellow yellow shirt with the Polly logo faded across the chest. It's one of the few graphic tees in his wardrobe, and the amount of times he's mended the cheap cotton blends is proof enough of his fondness for the shirt. He hardly gave the design a thought when he pulled it on this morning; he just wanted something light and simple. 

In the moment that he processes this, the woman—Barb, her name tag helpfully supplies—picks up his side of the conversation. "I keep telling my son to stop getting those for her. You can't get them everything they ask for, especially at this age, or they'll be spoiled rotten to the core. But she is Daddy's little girl. She just has to bat those eyes of hers and he'll go running to get her one from the newest line." 

He hums at her politely, staring at the change in her hand. While he understands chatting up customers breaks up the tedium of small business retail, something sours in Gumball as she continues. It's been a year since he had seen his Polly Pocket case—when he cleared out a drawer and put it into a box doomed to the back of his closet—and it's been four years since he's bothered opening it up to see the doll inside. 

All that is left of his playground Polly days is his continued friendship with Pepper and a passing acquaintance with a few of the other girls. 

"...is a real darling though. She'll be sure to be a real femme fatale like her grandmother. I can imagine that you are starting to hook the attention of some fine young men! Maybe even got yourself a boy already?" 

Gumball's eyes widen at her exclamation, heart racing at her guess about his sexuality. Most people aren't so forward with their assumptions, and sure, Gumball has been told he has "the look"—whatever that means—but this was so unexpected he squawks, but only a little bit. 

Barb laughs. "You're a shy one, I see. Well don't worry nothing, hun. You can tell me, woman to woman." 

A wave of violent heat breaks across the shore of his freckles, crashing past his cheeks, nose, and ears to warm every inch of his face. It trickles into his mouth, past the dead weight that used to be his tongue and down his windpipe. Emotion, molten and uncomfortable, constricts his air and for a moment, his chest collapses under the pressure of her prompting. His shirt feels three sizes too small, squeezing whatever his breath he has left, and Gumball cannot imagine what Barb sees when she looks at him. 

(Carrot orange hair long enough for a short ponytail, bangs—too short to yank into the elastic—flopping across his forehead. Narrow face with a few pimples lost among freckles, an Adam's Apple she doesn't notice, wide but slim shoulders, a shirt bought out a nostalgia that is more sincere than it is ironic, and to top it all off, heart-shaped money pouch... 

Where he sees Gumball, she sees pink and an awkward femininity. And, suddenly,) Gumball feels sick—sicker than he's ever felt—and he considers whether he really cares about the change. 

He decides to run, to leave when he hears: "Not yet, ma'am." 

That's his mouth moving, his voice pitched high and only slightly shrill. It wouldn't be enough for a full conversation, but enough for this. Just this. 

"Figures. Give it a couple of years. I'm sure they'll be beating themselves over the head for not asking sooner." 

"One can hope. While"—too deep... he adjusts his voice—"I would love to chat more, I have really got to make my bus." 

The woman jumps like she forgot the bills and coins wadded in her fist. "Oh yes yes." She promptly hands him his change and pushes over a paper bag with his skeins. "Don't be a stranger... Well damn. Had a whole conversation and didn't catch your name there." 

Gumball thinks of an army of names. He, of course, coughs out, "Bonnie." 

—

The craft store is (round trip) four buses, two fares, and ninety minutes away from the second floor apartment where the Trunks live. On the first floor, there is _Candy Kingdom_ and on the third, another apartment. That one's rented by a brother and a sister past their primes; the pair doesn't do much more than stare quietly at each other, and Gumball whenever he visits. His father said they were different when they first rented the apartment, years and year ago, and that they were very smart, and that the brother was very kind, and that the sister reminded him of Gumball—but did that mean Gumball wasn't kind? 

Gumball had finished bringing the two siblings a Tupperware of leftover pot roast when he notices a woman getting ready to leave his home after what must have been a short visit. He recognizes her as one of the new friends Ms Trunks made at the farmer's market that opened a few blocks away. He can't remember her name or what she does, but he does know she calls him "Gumball" and not "Bonnibello," which seem to be the preferred choice of many of the 50+ crowd. 

They greet each other at the front door of the apartment, and she compliments him on the piece he's left half-finished on an embroidery hoop. He is taking a break from it as it's a complicated design, one that he's been working on for weeks, with many shadows and highlights. She mentions that he must visit her favorite craft store—a real hole in the wall—directions to which she's left with his mother. 

The paper Ms Trunks gives him later has which buses to take, when to get off, and a detailed description of the store's awning and window. There's no name, and he doesn't think to look when he finally checks it out. Or the next time. Or the next. Or the next... 

He doesn't actually go into the store after that first visit, just passes by the display without ever turning into the door. Gumball gets to know the orange and gray awning and the store's tinted windows well, though, and he goes enough that he can recommend a nice place or two nearby to pick up food. He thinks about entering, and every few months he makes the trek only to walk by, stunned and unsure why he came. 

(But he knows why. Deep down, he knows how he craves to root through the basket of skeins once again, a rainbow curving around his finger as he gropes deeper and deeper. He wants Barb to tell her about Eddie (short for anything? named after anyone?) and ask him about boys and reproach him when he comes to her with a V-neck that's cut too low. He wants Barb to not be there so he can walk in and be himself and not squeeze a voice out that sounds nothing like him. He wants—he wants _something_ —his projects continue with floss bought elsewhere—the tunic and then a coat and then a dress for his mother's birthday and then—but he still wants. And wants and—) 

The first day of junior year, he asks his teachers to address him as Gumball before class begins, and they each make a note of it on their attendance sheets. 

  


* * *

  


"Oh my god, Gumball." 

Hands latch to his arm, and there in all her 4'9" (minus the heels) and 243-pound (as she was keen to inform him that afternoon as she whined that her favorite store has a sale on bras but doesn't carry anything bigger than a DDD) glory is LSP. She's framed by a crowd of men that swings—sways—collides to a playlist that is half pop Gumball recognizes from the radio and half bachata pulsing to an electronic 2/4 beat etched on a güira. She is one of the few women (drag or non-drag) in the crowd, yet she stares down the tight riot of bodies like they owe her something. 

"I thought you abandoned me." It cannot have been more than ten minutes since he has last seen her, and even then it had been her that walked away. She gestures without any meaning toward the front door with her beer. (Did she pay for it? Knowing her, probably not.) "Why don't you just _bother_ to learn the password? Just once gets you in forever. No candy. Just... forever." 

"We have been over this a multitude of times. I cannot roll my _r_ s in any manner that Jaybird or the other bouncers will accept." Gumball ignores her sighed _serves you right_. "Need I remind you that you could have waited at the door with me?" 

"Well I don't got TIME to WAIT because you're too gringo to get the job done. There are men out there, men who want"—she grabs Gumball's hands and squeezes them around her love handles. The skin pitches under his thumbs and he's in awe of her; of her hands; of how open she is; how hesitant he is—"these fabulous fucking lumps. My LUMPS, Gumball. My lovely. Lady. Lumps. I can't disappoint them." 

Gumball pats her sides as a gesture he hopes is not as awkward he imagines it is. "Yes, dear. They are here for you, despite the particular—ah—inclinations of this venue's clientele." 

"Damn right they are. THEY CAN'T RESIST THE SWEET BECK OF MY SIREN CALL." She's already sashaying away, looking back only to whisper " _No_ body" as Gumball loses her to the churning crowd once again. 

He can follow her, but Gumball decides to hang back and embraces the swell of heat, strategically dim lighting, vibrancy, and life circling around him. He likes it here; likes that it feels like he can _breathe_ for the first time since the last time LSP dragged him here; likes that he can just _be_ pink and soft and flirty and anonymous (or as anonymous as he could be in the only gay bar serving the city's growing Dominican neighborhood). 

Gumball is considering getting a simple appletini (before LSP has a chance to order him a Leg Spreader, Slippery Nipple, or something equally as scandalous) when curious fingers graze his hips, a "Hey" whispered into his ear even before he has the chance to react to the touch. The person rudely invading his space is roughly as tall as him, with thick black hair that has the occasional straight clump lost in a sea of unprimped waves. He's kind of gorgeous in the bad-boy-in-plaid-shirt-and-holey-jeans kind of way, which makes it even more of a tremendous disappointment when he opens his full mouth and says: 

"So there I was, in deep contemplation as to whether or not your curtains matched your drapes—" 

" _Excuse_ me?" Gumball sputters out, which doesn't stop Plaid Shirt Guy from jetting forward with his attempt at a pick-up line. 

"—when it occurred to me that I could just come over here and ask you." Just as Gumball is about to push him away, or snap at him, or do something to signal what an absolute ass Plaid Shirt Guy was making out of himself, the man laughs, "So, what is it, princess?" 

Gumball does not know what to do—no, he does know, knows what he should do: he should listen to his instincts and not engage Plaid Shirt Guy. Even if Gumball's usual urge for politeness at all costs rages with a sickness of redragelust, there is also the deep urge to get away from the twist predatory twist of Plaid Shirt's lips. But... despite his crudeness, despite the man's too-sweet tilt of his laughing tone, there is a spark in Gumball's stomach that burns raw, brittle, and ugly at the carelessly feminizing pet name. (This is not the first time he's been called a princess; not the first time it was used by someone trying to pick him up; not the first time he froze with the guilt of his pleasure. Plaid Shirt Guy is not the first but—oh—it feels so goodwrong _good_ all the same, and Gumball cannot deny that the hunger of his lust towards the man collapsing into a deep, uncomfortable well at the thought of Plaid Shirt's voice tonguing "princess" into his teeth.) 

Gumball clamps a hand around Plaid Shirt Guy's wrist, but doesn't try to push the hand away. Instead, he asks, "Are you drunk?" 

He smirks at Gumball. "Only a little," Plaid Shirt admits as he slips his thumb underneath the hem of the Gumball's khaki-colored button-down, the kind rodeo cowboys wear. There are even horses embroidered on the shoulders, horses that Gumball spent hours of painstaking labor sewing in. Not that Plaid Shirt cares: he scoffs at them as he rubs a circle of heat onto Gumball's skin. "So, what's your answer, princess?" 

"Don't call me that," comes the quick, if breathless reply. "My name is Gumball." 

Gumball's tone is so serious that it cannot sound like a joke, and even though Plaid Shirt must instantly know it isn't, he laughs regardless, his head thrown back and throat exposed. Gumball glares at him, his lower lip turned down in a moue. 

"Ahh, come on, don't make that face at me," Plaid Shirt Guy teases when his laughter subsides. He uses his spare hand to push back a strand of Gumball's hair that is curled against his forehead, fallen from his meticulous, florescent pink 1950's quiff. "I'm just having a good time." 

"At my expense," Gumball points out, but his tone is not as snappish as it should be. He thinks Plaid Shirt is hot, and wants to kiss Plaid Shirt's wicked smile, and wrap his fingers into that tangle of hair, and to have Plaid Shirt's dark skin against his until the contrast is the only thing reminding Gumball that they are two bodies and not a single writhing mass of sex and pleasure. Plaid Shirt looks appropriately cowed by Gumball's reprimand, though, which helps his case but not enough to excuse Gumball when his pinky finger curves tentatively into the belt loop of Plaid Shirt Guy's jeans. (For as long as he can remember, Gumball has a habit of taking things that he knows he shouldn't. If it gets him into Plaid Shirt's pants, it's a habit he doesn't want to break tonight.) 

"You're a jerk," is the weak protest from the more proper side of Gumball's mind. 

"Says you," Plaid Shirt murmurs as he noses the soft line of Gumball's jaw. "I think I'm quite charming." 

"I don't even know your name." 

"Marshall Lee," tumbles out of Pla—out of Marshall Lee's mouth, and whatever Gumball wants to say is swallowed by the press of an insistent, infuriating, hot, desperately needed kiss. 

—

"You got the shit?" 

In the olden days, there would be a heavy metal door with a sliding window. Or maybe a complicated knocking system on an unmarked door. Today, there is just Jaybird in front of an open cellar, his red Cons tapping out a rhythm only he understands against the metal of his stool's legs. He barely acknowledges the world around him through the slits he has for eyes, squinting as if the weed Gumball smells on him physically tugs his lids close. 

Gumball tosses over the paper bag in his hand as LSP goes on ahead, floating down the stairs like she isn't wearing six-inch heels and a tight violet dress that only barely covers her startlingly voluptuous curves. 

"Well? Can I go in now?" They do this every time, but still they play this ridiculous game. Jaybird prims himself up and delicately peeks into the bag. He's not disappointed. Jaybird rolls a fist to his mouth in celebration, and behind his hand, Gumball can barely see the dark freckles against Jaybird's skin, knowing they are there out of freckle solidarity more than seeing them in the dim light of the alleyway. 

"Oh, you went and spoiled me today. New shipment come and need to get rid of what was laying around?" Jaybird doesn't wait for an answer; just reaches in and pulls out a blue sugar crystal as long as his palm and as thick as this thumb. It's in his mouth in the blink of an eye, and Gumball takes that as an invitation to barrel down the basement access before Jaybird tries to engage him in conversation or asks to take another look at what they both know is Gumball's fake ID. 

Before Gumball passes the threshold of street to dubiously legal club, he takes a breath. He doesn't quite know what he tells himself, standing there, bracing himself—against what?—but he is hyper-aware that his eyelashes are pink, the pale spikes darkened with rose-colored mascara, and that to everyone he is a twink, a white boy who doesn't really belong who they (or at least most of them) accept anyway, and he to them is gay, and to them he is he, and so Gumball guesses that that must be true. 

  


* * *

  


Gumball is yanking _Candy Kingdom_ 's gate down when he hears a yelled "Wait!" from down the street. He looks up and sees Fionna jogging toward him. She's a blur of blue and white as she hurries her thick, stubby legs as fast as she can without losing her breath. When she gets to him, she grabs hold of Gumball's shoulder and huffs, "Hi." 

"Why, hello Fionna. This is certainly a pleasant surprise." 

"Yeah? I told Marshall I'll be dropping by one of these days to see what's hip hopping with this place. He told me y'all are open until 7?" 

Gumball shook his head, already formulating a firm scolding for Marshall Lee later. "We close at 6. Most days we are done with clean-up and inventory by 6:30, but the gate is closed by then. Fridays, though, we can stay until 7 to do more detail work." Although she hadn't asked, Gumball adds: "And I only work Monday/Wednesday/Friday because I take classes at Greendale Tuesday/Thursday. My mother and father run the register otherwise." 

"Oh. That's wack." 

"Yes. He may be my boyfriend, but you should be warned that Marshall Lee is not the most reliable of characters. I try my best to keep him in line, but there's only so much I can do. If you need to make plans or want anything to do with numbers, please text or call me." 

"Good to know." Awkward, Fionna pulls on the ear on her knitted rabbit cap which is quite literally coming apart at the seams. "I guess I'll come back Friday for my sugar fix, huh?" 

Fionna looks decidedly disappointed with a pout and her eyes casually glancing past the gate into the shop. Gumball knows she lives a few neighborhoods over; it would be rude to turn her away after taking such a long trek. "You know what," Gumball says as he yanks up the gate. "Just this once, I think I can make an exception. Just don't go telling everyone I let you in past hours!" 

Fionna cheers "Mathematical! You're the best!," draws him into a three-second hug, and scampers in without any further delay. Gumball makes sure that everything is locked up and in place, including the handwritten _Sorry, We're Closed_ sign that's older than him, before following Fionna in. She has made herself comfortable, tiptoeing up and down the short and narrow aisles with an enthusiasm he usually only sees in the youngest of customers. One of the store's pink baskets swings from her elbow as she jumps to see the topmost shelves. 

She's quiet, mumbling to herself about the variety she sees and the pros and cons of different brands. Gumball wants to be put out for being ignored so thoroughly after allowing her in; however, as he watches her checking every jar and bucket, every pile and drawer, he finds himself thankful to see her like this. This is only the first time they've been alone with one another. The half-dozen other times found him, her, and Marshall Lee together, usually in a public place or with friends. But this is different than getting to know each other, talking about the logistics of jamming together, or practicing their sound at Fionna's brother's place. This is casual, friendly. Fionna lost to her natural state of peticularity. 

Eventually, she gets stuck between the merits of trying out a new flavor of Jelly Belly's or taking it safe by getting familiar flavors. Gumball walks to her side, surprising her when he taps her wrist and suggests against the Coldstone Creamery flavors; they are awful. She tilts her head back to beam up to him (how Gumball how surrounded himself with so many short women, he does not know), and they easily fall into a rapport about jellybeans. 

Topics slide into one another, and before he knows it, it's been forty-five minutes and he and Fionna are sitting on the floor in the last aisle, a large bag of peach rings Fionna insists she will pay for open between them. 

"Hey," Fionna says suddenly as if they haven't already been in a conversation. Hearing Gumball's "hm?" Fionna slides up against him. She's warm against his side and the curves of her body are so unlike Marshall Lee's, or LSP's, or Pepper's, or either of his parents. Her body is this soft, round plush at his side, and he wants to blush at how comfy she is. Not feeling a rejection, she rests her head against his shoulder, and Gumball knows they have been in physical contact before but this still feels like a first he wants to remember. 

"Sometimes Marshall Lee calls you Bonnie," Fionna says after she's properly set herself to Gumball's side. "Am I sup—" 

Gumball groans at the question he interrupted. He doesn't mean to, yet he still curtly says, "Marshall Lee likes to reference my birth name every now and again, especially when we spend time around my parents' friends. I permit him to, but please, Gumball is more than fine from you." 

"Gumball..." Fionna murmurs in response, pensive and thinking. Gumball wants to flick her nose to dispel her seriousness, as he would with Marshall Lee. The affectionate familiarity of the action stops him, but not before his fingertips lightly touch the knotted loose strings hanging from Fionna's hat. The hat must have been nice, once; now it is far too loved to make much of an impression. But he doesn't draw back, and Fionna must take courage from the exchange because she asks, "I hope not to offend or anything, but I want to clarify to my mindspace, and for when I go and blab about you to Jake later: What pronouns do you like for yourself, Gumball?" 

"People use _he_ ," he answers automatically. There's a tense, frightening moment when Gumball thinks Fionna doesn't believe that's a good enough reply. Perhaps because it's not. She doesn't pressure him, stuffing peach rings into her mouth as he calms himself. He doesn't think too hard and specific about it, but when he follows up with "I accept _he_ ," the sentence sits easier on his tongue. 

Fionna nods and, even though she currently has at least three peach rings in her mouth, charges into talking about her newly acquired kitten Cake. 

—

When they part after that first conversation, Gumball feels the urge to repay her kindness he cannot yet name. "I know this one must mean a lot to you," Gumball says, rubbing his hands together, "but I could knit you a new hat. It wouldn't be a bother." 

It's a silly offer to make for someone who isn't quite a friend but isn't a stranger either, but the smile that breaks on Fionna's heart-shaped lips makes it seem like Gumball has offered her the moon or something equally as majestic. She immediately rips her bunny cap off and hands it to Gumball, probably knowing he will need if for reference. As she does, she reveals a wild mess of blond hair, most of which had been kept in a huge knot that dislodges when she shakes it out. 

Fionna's hair is long, thick, and gorgeous, and for a moment he gets it. Gets why Marshall Lee talks to her so much. Gets why Marshall Lee becomes uncharacteristically fond when Fionna comes up in conversation. Gets how at a party he and Marshall Lee went to eight weeks ago, Marshall Lee glanced at a stout girl across the room and said "Hey, let's double team this chick." Gumball hated him then, offended on the woman's behalf; just because they discussed the possibility of a threesome does not mean they would engage the issue with such indecent rhetoric toward potential partners. He hated Marshall Lee more when Gumball's acquaintance Jake introduced the girl to them as his sister who wanted to jam with people, and hey, don't you two play instruments? 

But here he gets it, although it's just for a moment before Fionna jogs away. Then he’s alone again, finally pulling down the gate for the night, and the heat he felt in that one instant crashes on him in a wave of regret. It’s wrong of him to think these things of Fionna, debasing her like Marshall Lee did all those weeks ago. Except perhaps it’s even worse, because it’s not just Fionna he’s being inconsiderate to. While Marshall Lee is enthusiastic to occasionally bringing others into their bed, Marshall Lee and Gumball agreed it would be one night three-way flings only. Fantasizing about friends is _definitely_ against the rules. 

In an effort to repress the last ten minutes the best he can, Gumball guiltily looks down at the cap and thinks about what kind of stitch would hold the best and the longest. 

  


* * *

  


Gumball has horrible sex faces. 

He discovered this at the tender age of thirteen, when he held the morning wood he was still surprised by and glanced at the small mirror propped up on his nightstand. He had used it before he went to sleep to check if the darkening dots on his cheeks were rising pimples or just sunburnt freckles, resting his chin against the tabletop to obsess over the shadows of his pores. He fell asleep to the image of his face blurred from exhaustion, and woke to a face skewed in the trembling ache of his growing body. It was startling to make eye contact with himself, watching in curious perversion as his pupils dilated and an unintentional grimace squeezed his features tight and ugly. 

Just over a decade later, Gumball may not be as alarmed by the ins and outs of his body's needs, responses, and pleasures, but his sex face has yet to improve. As Marshall Lee bends him in half—hands holding knees to ears and the arches of Gumball's feet digging into Marshall Lee's shoulder blades—Gumball preemptively grits his teeth against the already-building scowl. 

Marshall Lee doesn't blink at Gumball's frustration, as he's long adjusted to the frowns, the sneers, the exaggerated shocked "o" mouths, and the occasional unnerving stoicism. He had stopped looking for pleasure and consent in Gumball's face after the twentieth time he misread excitement for anger, and now Gumball keens and moans and pants thrice as hard to make up for the misunderstanding; Gumball can't quite be sure if he's more embarrassed by the inevitability of his awful sex faces or the necessity of the noise. Either way, the quiet buzz of shame stirs his gut, in a way that is so degrading it ends up looping back to being hot again. 

It's hot when he sighs as Marshall Lee digs his fingers into his skin. He cries out as Marshall Lee's cock fills the lubed crease of his ass—not penetrating, not yet, but the sensation of that heat splitting his cheeks is enough to flare Gumball's hackles. When he hisses as Marshall Lee slides against him, he can feel his mind narrowing down to the accidental points of contact between his hole and Marshall Lee's dick. 

It only takes a few more thrusts for Gumball to admit how much he wants it; wants the fullness and the effort and the come; wants Marshall Lee in him; wants "the d," as Marshall Lee is wont to phrase it. (He's since taken to add "Oh wait, what you really want is the _Lee_ ," but Gumball is only willing to go far to appease his boyfriend's immaturity.) 

So Gumball begs. He begs with his voice high and his fingers scratching into his thighs even as he holds them flush to his torso. He begs in consonants that start with _please_ and end in _fuck_. Since Marshall Lee isn't the biggest jerkwad today, he quickly presses a kiss to Gumball's ankle and slides in. Gumball hiccups with the force of Marshall Lee's hips slamming into him. He relaxes his body the best he can and focuses on how each movement is hard and succinct, as the pull of Marshall Lee's foreskin catches even within Gumball. 

Marshall Lee moans Gumball's name, shifting on his knees to prevent his legs from falling asleep. He looks wrecked, and Gumball takes pride in reducing the embodiment of sarcasm to this. Marshall Lee's lost most of his brain function, and he's struggling to keep pace. When Marshall Lee starts to babble barely coherent dirty talk about Gumball "taking it like that, fuck yes," it is more endearing than hot. 

Gumball watches in continued affection as Marshall Lee tries to shake his damp hair away from his forehead and fails. While he really should keep his hands holding up his legs, Gumball takes a chance and drops one thigh to reach out to swipe the bangs away from Marshall Lee's eyes. It's a touch that stands as a harsh juxtaposition to the aggression of their fucking, and, distracted, Marshall Lee acknowledges the action with a clipped, "Thanks, mami." 

A full minute passes before Marshall Lee's words catch up to Gumball. The second they do, Gumball feels a shift of a frightening disquiet within his chest, as swift and unpleasant as biting into a jawbreaker thinking it's gum. He's... angry? Frustrated? It's... Marshall Lee has thankfully grown out of his casual sexism, fearing LSP's wrath, Gumball holding out, and Fionna's biting sarcasm. He still _princess_ 's Gumball in moderation, knowing that Gumball has a soft spot for the endearment but that he will also withdraw if it's used too often. 

But this—it was unconscious. Unconscious and short and familiar, like when he calls LSP his sister (which is often followed by "from another mister") or Fionna—well—when he calls Fionna his "main girl." He should feel jealous of the slip in pet names, should question Marshall Lee's focus. But it seems _so right_ that Gumball doesn't know what to do or why to resist other than that he should. It is instinct, then, to blame when he kicks Marshall Lee's shoulder. 

"The fuck!" Marshall Lee groans even as he continues fucking into Gumball. 

The gratification Gumball feels at startling Marshall Lee is momentary and not nearly enough to dislodge the knot suddenly twisting in his throat. But what keeps Gumball from kicking again is that Marshall Lee focuses on his face, and although he promised never to be fooled by Gumball's misleading expressions again, he pauses. Gumball can't imagine his already horrible sex face worsened by his current rage and discomfort; can barely see Marshall Lee's reaction because his vision swims (tears of frustration are still tears; how embarrassing). "Hey..." 

"Would you be this rough with Fionna?" 

Marshall Lee jumps at the non sequitur before laughing hesitantly. It's a low blow, meant to hurt and distract, and both of them know it. The weird emotional current of the question runs counter to the reality of Marshall Lee's cock still hard inside Gumball, as Gumball's bobs heavily where it is tucked against his stomach. Marshall Lee takes it all in stride, though, leaning forward without a thought of how their current arrangement makes such a movement awkward. Feeling cramped, Gumball needs to slip his legs over Marshall Lee's shoulders so his knees hook the wide planes. This makes room for Marshall Lee who sneaks a sharp bite to Gumball's neck. 

"All that matters is that I'll fuck you like I want to." 

Gumball sobs, and his anger deflates before Marshall Lee's teeth finds another place to nip. When Gumball doesn't try to kick him again, Marshall Lee starts driving into him once more, slower this time but still powerful enough to steal Gumball's breath away. Gumball gets his fingers tightly wound around Marshall Lee's curls and reins him in, tugging him into each staccato of pelvis against pelvis. Probably in a offer of reconciliation, Marshall Lee also rounds a hand around Gumball's cock and pumps. Gumball meets him halfway. 

It's a slow build-up to their orgasms, and Marshall Lee makes it a point to kiss him more often—even, shockingly, on the lips despite the fact that he needs to constantly readjust their position to do so. By the time they come (Gumball in Marshall Lee's hands, Marshall Lee between Gumball's legs after he pulls out), Gumball's tantrum eases itself into a self-conscious bitterness. Still, he allows Marshall Lee to manhandle them into a cuddle. 

Into Gumball's jaw Marshall Lee whispers, "Gonna tell me what's got you all worked up?" Gumball makes a sound to indicate his refusal, and while he cannot see Marshall Lee roll his eyes, but he can feel it against his skin. "Well, be like that." A pause. "Hey, since you don't want to share, do you think you can fetch a towel or something? We'll be rank otherwise." 

For this, Gumball kicks Marshall Lee again, pushing his ass off the bed. Marshall Lee grumbles at his mistreatment but goes to get something to clean up. 

—

They do not consummate their relationship through sex. 

If they did, they would have been a triad for the past year and a half, which they hadn't been because the first and only time they had sex up to that point was a happy fluke. They had just gotten off stage and while _Adventure Time!_ was not headlining, and the club Dewpia was a real hole-in-the-wall, and most of the crowd showed up at the very end of their set, the sense of accomplishment they felt wreaked havoc on their ability to walk. They grabbed each other to stand, wobbled to the backroom, and when they finally found a couch to squish into, Gumball's mouth was on Marshall Lee's before they sat down. They were so drunk on each other and their music that when Marshall Lee slipped a hand over Fionna's inner thigh just above her knee, squeezing, Gumball didn't feel any semblance of the horror he should have felt as Marshall Lee asked her to come back home with them. 

Fionna couldn't answer right away because that was the moment Jake, Raini, and LSP stumbled in, congratulating them in English, half-Korean/half-English, and half-Spanglish/half-English respectively. The six of them drank cheap booze and laughed and danced through the headliner's set, although LSP left on a gorgeous man's arm soon enough. It was only after Jake announced that it was time to bounce, and that he was crashing at Raini's, that Fionna told Gumball and Marshall Lee that they could hold up fort at her and her brother's apartment "cuz it's closer, right?" 

With their instruments strung to their sweaty backs (guitar for Fionna, bass for Marshall Lee, and a clunky, baby pink keyboard for Gumball), they climbed up the agonizing six flights of stairs in Fionna's walk-up. After a breather and glasses of water, they stripped and fucked on Fionna's undersized bed. It was a long night of Gumball's mouth stretched around Marshall Lee's cock, and Marshall Lee holding Gumball's ass cheeks apart, wide and inviting, as Fionna fucked Gumball with a strap-on she produced from a hilariously antique wooden chest under her bed. 

(They also spent the entire time shooing the ever-nosy, ever-indignant Cake away from their coupling, but that's neither here nor there.) 

So they don't consummate over sex. Instead, it's over hot chocolate. The heating in the tiny house Marshall Lee and Gumball rent has been out for a week, and even though the owner sends in repairmen, no one is quite sure what is going on. It's not cold enough that they need to relocate, but they still need a spare heater to be comfortable. 

Hearing Fionna's teeth chattering as they try to watch reruns of _Family Matters_ , Gumball jolts up. "That's it." With Marshall Lee and Fionna calling after him, he thunders to the hallway closet, swings it open, and digs out four knitted sweaters from their hiding place in a black plastic bag. 

He returns to the couch, announcing, "I was going to give these to you for Christmas or something, but it's cold and we're cold and here, just take it." He tosses Marshall Lee a sweater, Fionna two, and pulls his over his head. He slumps back onto the couch, takes his hot chocolate in hand and is ready to get invested in the shenanigans of Urkel and co. His friends are not so willing. 

"I'm not even cold, why do I have to put on your dorky—" 

"Shut up, Marshall." Fionna elbows him in the stomach before turning to Gumball. She's sitting in between Gumball and Marshall Lee, so Gumball can see the affection tinting her cheeks rosy and he can hear it in her confused appreciation. Her thumbs run over the tight stitches of Gumball's knitting. "You... you made one for Cake." 

"Oh course I did, dear." Gumball pats her knee. "I cannot have your cat running around cold if you bring her to visit. That would be indecent of me as a friend, band mate, host, and animal lover. I also made for Jake and Raini, but let’s keep those a surprise." 

She frowns. "You _really_ didn't have to do that." 

"I think I did." 

"No, no, you—" 

"Yo, fuck this game," interrupts Marshall Lee, who has his sweater on despite his earlier complaint. Gumball reaches over to smack him upside the head for his impoliteness but Marshall Lee moves to sit between Gumball and Fionna's feet. He grabs whatever hand they aren't holding their drinks with and says, "I'm getting blue balls just looking at us. Fionna, Gumball is too chicken to ask this even though he wants it bad..."—"Marshall Lee! Now is not"—"Yes, it is the fucking time. I'm sick of this fawning and pussyfooting and angst." 

Marshall Lee squeezes their hands and pauses. Gumball knows that it's so he can stop him from preceding. He wants to stop Marshall Lee, can feel himself beginning to panic, but he nods, hopeful in a way that terrifies him. Beside him, Fionna gasps which spurs Marshall Lee into action. "My main girl Fionna," he kisses into her knuckles, "Gumball wants nothing more than to suck your huge vibrating blue cock and probably everything else in your pirate chest of wonders." 

" _Marshall Lee_." 

"Yeah yeah, and I would love to eat you out and nuzzle the fuck out of you afterwards with my tentacle grip of doom. If you would be so kind, please accept my offer of threesomes and hug piles. We can have a trial run if you want, and I know you want to live with your bro and that's cool, so—" 

" _I motherduckling love hug piles_ ," Fionna's screeches before taking a swig from her hot chocolate, putting her cup down on the couch, grabbing Gumball by his neck, and yanking him in for a kiss. She's sweet and warm, and Gumball swoons into her, his grasp on Marshall Lee's hand tightening in avid love and thanks. It's more than he could have asked for, more than he could have ever imagined. And Gumball would be willing to go on forever kissing Fionna with Marshall Lee at their feet but then Fionna gets distracted by the handsome voice of Stefan on the television. None of them can ignore a Stefan episode, so they break up for the time being and huddle up on the couch, each wearing their brand new sweater. 

  


* * *

  


He sees it when his triad goes to the mall to pick something up for Jake and Raini's combined bachelor-bachelorette party. In the store, Marshall Lee hovers beside him and Fionna, studiously ignoring their search for something appropriate in favor of playing on his phone. It catches his eyes because it feels oddly familiar, cut into layers upon layers of meticulously cut tulle, and Gumball wants it more than he can understand but doesn't know how to ask. 

—

He thinks about it that night when he has his mouth on Fionna's dusky pink nipples and again when Marshall Lee's hair whispers sheer and invisible against the back of his knees. 

He finds himself at the store the next day. He walks aimlessly up and down the aisles, and he wonders if the sales people recognize him. He's about to leave before buying anything when he has an odd sense of deja vu. Surer than he's ever been, he knows if he exits the store, he will be back. 

Again and again, if not in person, then in his memories. 

He makes a choice, then. When the store clerk rings up his purchase, the world doesn't collapse, and he doesn't drop dead, and he is still Gumball, through and through. On the way back home, he clutches onto the bag they gave him, hands sweating from the plastic, but he doesn't let go; just holds and holds and holds and— 

  


* * *

* * *

  


"So," Fionna says as she settles next to Marshall Lee on the couch. "Do you know what this is about?" 

The text on Fionna's phone says the same thing his does: _I have a surprise for you! Be in the living room at two._ Marshall Lee shrugs, throwing an arm around Fionna's shoulders. She absently buries herself deeper into his side, kicking her tiny feet up onto the coffee table. "It's probably a new pie recipe," he guesses. 

"Shiz," Fionna hisses. "I still haven't worked off the last one." 

Marshall Lee laughs as Fionna pats the soft curve of her tummy. She's gained weight since moving in, courtesy of Gumball's indulgent cooking. There are several articles of clothing that she can't close even though they fit her just fine before Raini and Jake's shotgun wedding (how Raini managed to get knocked up five times over in one go will forever be beyond Marshall Lee). Fionna isn't a fan of her gain because of the clothing situation but Marshall Lee loves the way she carries it. He leans in and pinches her belly, smirking as she squeals and bats at his chest with her small hands. 

"Hey now," Gumball says pleasantly from the direction of the kitchen. "No fighting you two." 

Marshall Lee looks up, but whatever his retort was dies as Gumball steps out into the living room. There's a giant pie between his oven-mittened hands, a mountain of meringue piled fluffy and white on top. Yet it isn't the pie that ties Marshall Lee's tongue into a knot: it's the skirt. 

"Ooooh yes!" Fionna chirps, making grabby hands at Gumball until he sweeps close. Fionna pulls out one of the forks Gumball holds in his embroidered oven mitts, and she digs into the pie straight from the tin, moaning at the taste once it hits her mouth. 

Content at her response, Gumball laughs and turns to Marshall Lee. He shifts his weight to the balls of his feet and back, and asks, "Well?" 

Gumball has always been... effeminate. He wears make-up, paints his nails, buys clothes in the petite ladies section, and wears perfectly constructed women's flats. But it's always been more than the aesthetic for Gumball. But even Marshall Lee knows this—this _skirt_ —is different than Gumball's usual schtick. He can see that Gumball is flushed a red so dark it looks like his skin is going to burn right off. Can see how tension folds unhappy creases around Gumball's tight-lipped smile. He can see that Gumball's pulled his arms and elbows too close to his body, far too stiff and unnatural for someone who occasionally performs in front of live crowds and sells candy to kids on a near daily basis. 

Embarrassed, resentful, apathetic, ashamed, insecure, happy, overwhelmed, anxious...? The ambiguity of Gumball's expression discomforts Marshall Lee in a way he didn't think was possible. Gumball is only allowed to pull that shit in bed, and a too-earnest ache chills Marshall Lee's heart to see it without the unspoken promise that no, Gumball is actually having a great orgasmic time, ignore him. 

No matter his own confusion, no matter what it means for them, no matter how much he is bound to fuck this up somehow, Marshall Lee only cares about getting his Gumball back: the fae thing he picked up at a bar once after another bad break-up with Ashley to pass the time, who is also the first person (other than his teacher-turned-mentor-turned-schizo-turned-Marshall-Lee's-somewhat-responsibility, Simon, who never counts ever) Marshall Lee wanted to stick by, who is also the keyboardist that knows how to work a crowd with a pout, and the best baker Marshall Lee knows, and the best kid to his parents, and the best cocksucker he's ever had suck his cock, and the kindest, most attentive, fucking bombshell hot boyfriend (...shit, is that okay? Boyfriend? Maybe? Fuck, Fionna always calls him her "partner in crime" now that Marshall Lee thinks about it... _mother of_ ) he or Fionna could have ever asked for, and—now—the Gumball who could be happy in a skirt. 

Marshall Lee takes the pie from Gumball and hands it off to Fionna before cooing Gumball into his lap. "It looks great." He pecks Gumball's lips. Fionna begins to whine about not being able to finish the pie all by herself, but Marshall Lee focuses on the way Gumball eases into him, pliant, beautiful, his (and Fionna's). Another smooch will not end the issue, but Marshall Lee still hazards another one before stealing a fork from Gumball’s grasp. "Really, really great," he says, and he means it. 

—

By the time Pozhar shows up, the inclusion of a 6'3" mohawked, heteroromantic recent Russian immigrant with a dubious criminal record (all misunderstandings and he was never charged) and an inclination toward fire is not enough to upset the little piece of (slightly dilapidated) heaven Marshall Lee, Gumball, and Fionna dug out for themselves. 

From what they tell Pozhar after their two managers field him and decide that he is "hmmmmmmmmMMmmm, yes yes, mild. not spicy, okay," the triad works weekdays, practice weekends and Tuesday nights, and book gigs for the weekends. They have their five nephews and nieces over a lot for babysitting duties, which Pozhar may or may not be roped in to help for. The only thing missing from their picturesque life was a certain umph in their music they thought would be achieved with a fourth member. 

Nearing the end of the dinner the four of them have together to make their introductions, Fionna is the one who remembers to mention that oh yeah, in addition to being the world's awesomest bandmates, the three of them also happen to be sleeping with each other, and Gumball comes with a list of do's and don'ts when referring to him. 

If Pozhar is going to be completely honest to himself, getting involved with the _Adventure Time!_ trio seems like too much trouble to be worth it (living with a threesome arrangement, not the Gumball thing). But they wanted a drummer, and he needed a bed. The four of them think it will be a good idea. 

Then the sleep-overs start. Apparently, Pozhar's bed used to be where one of them would go if the other two wanted to be alone or if they weren't in the mood. When Marshall Lee appears at his door half dead from exhaustion, Pozhar doesn't have the heart to turn him to the couch, which is plush and wonderful to sit on but does horrors to one's back if one slept on it. Gumball apologizes for his boyfriend the next morning for the intrusion, but Pozhar says it was okay; he likes the company. 

And it would have been fine—he isn't lying to Gumball to keep his place in the house or the band—but then Fionna slips in beside him. She is a sleep cuddle monster and Pozhar is acutely aware of the way her soft body contorts around his unforgiving angles. He cannot find sleep in the nights that follow; it takes him an embarrassing amount of time (three weeks and five days) to realize that he waits up just in case she might find her way back. 

Pozhar is not one to worry himself into an unnecessary stupor, but he cannot imagine an outcome where someone doesn’t walk out hurt. He thinks he would be willing to share a girlfriend; it would actually be really convenient to have someone to send her to when she needed sex instead of forcing himself into dealing with someone else's lust. But he doesn't know whether Fionna can love him without the sex. If she has enough love for one more person. If she even likes him like that. Then there's Marshall Lee and Gumball. Would they expect something from him? Would they only let the relationship grow to include Pozhar if they were involved too? They are good bandmates and may even be great friends to him one day, but Pozhar can't feel for them what he feels for Fionna. And what of the band? What if it doesn't work out, and Marshall Lee, Fionna, and Gumball kick him out of _Adventure Time!_ because it would be easier to deal with finding a new drummer than dealing with the fireball of rage and depression Pozhar is sure to be if he and Fionna break up. 

Even though he feels like a coward, he stays quiet about his revelation because it's easier and he can deal with less shut eye. Or, he stays quiet until one sleep-over with Fionna months later, when he absently rubs his palm against the long curve of where her thigh meets her pelvis and Fionna doesn't realize she's turned on until she screams her orgasm. Which freaks her out, which freaks Pozhar out, which snaps Marshall Lee and Gumball out of the post-coital they were having in the next room over, which sends Marshall Lee running naked and alert into Pozhar's room, Gumball following shortly after wrapped in a blanket. 

A comedy of errors later, Pozhar finds himself in a relationship with a woman who in turn is in a relationship with two other people. 

Despite Pozhar's reservations about the whole thing, nothing much changes. Cake still jumps into his lap when he's tries to practice his drumming; LSP walks away every night with the most attractive guy in the bar; Kim Kil Whan finds new ways to sneak crayons in his pockets that crumble into balls in the wash; Marshall Lee and Fionna call him "Po" half the time; their managers fight for better locales with only the most acceptable of conditions; Mr and Ms Trunks adore him and fill him with sweets and parental advice; Fionna uses euphemisms for profanities; Marshall Lee is an asshole; and Gumball gives him a companionably wide berth. 

Although, considering how affectionate Gumball is with everyone else, the space Gumball gives Pozhar confuses him. Gumball has only twice slept over in Pozhar's bed, preferring to take the couch. Gumball always gives Pozhar the best cut of meat like he would a guest and not himself, Fionna, or Marshall Lee. He will, without fail, let Pozhar shower first even though Pozhar consistently uses up all the hot water. Pozhar figures that must just be his way. He still has Fionna, and Marshall Lee can be a riot to talk to when he isn't grating on Pozhar's nerves. It's only after Fionna confesses, sounding more pained than her lullaby voice should ever be, that Gumball hasn't worn a skirt around the house since Pozhar came to live with them, that Pozhar realizes the status quo isn't good enough anymore. 

Pozhar has no idea what to do about it, but luckily, Gumball has an instinctual need to help and unknowingly offers Pozhar an opportunity within a week. Pozhar is on his bed messing around on the internet when Gumball knocks on his door; he's wearing an old yellow T-shirt that has faded spots of pink dye and bleached white speckling around the collar. He looks sheepish as he asks, "Pozhar, can I steal you for a bit?" 

"Sure," Pozhar agrees without asking what Gumball needs him for, but Gumball explains as Pozhar gets up anyway, and they cut down the hall to the bathroom. 

"My roots are showing," Gumball says, pointing to the half-inch of red roots at the end of his otherwise pink hair, "and I want to look nice for tomorrow." 

Pozhar gives Gumball a single, understanding nod; they are, after all, playing at the Nightosphere. It's a big fucking deal (even if they got a bit of preferential treatment from the owner, who ended up being Marshall Lee's estranged mother) and they are all freaking out. 

"But with my hand the way it is..."—palm sliced from a broken candy jar, thankfully Gumball is skilled enough to play most of the songs with one hand and minimum effort from the cut one—"I need some help. I would ask Fionna, but she's mucking through my old junk in search of treasure." 

Gumball sits down on the toilet seat, the comb, bleach, dye, hair dryer, and brush already set up on a folding table. Having seen glances of Marshall Lee and Fionna doing this before, quick peeks of intimacy through a half-open door, Pozhar follows their lead and slots in between Gumball's knees and takes up the comb. Pozhar doesn't know much about dyeing hair and is more terrified of messing up Gumball's pride and joy than he cares to admit, but Gumball walks him through it with calm instructions. When he gets into the rhythm of it, Pozhar relaxes in the repetition of pushing his gloved fingers through Gumball's fluffy hair, separating sections with the comb, and painting on what he hopes is the right amount of bleach. 

Pozhar is washing his hands after finishing this step of the dyeing process when Fionna bursts through the door yelling, "Aye, booty found!" She must have miscalculated the speed at which she was running in socks because she slips forward and whatever she was waving around flies out of her hand. It whizzes past Pozhar's head as he lunges forward to catch her. 

She giggles, "My hero," in his arms. He rights her and starts to poke fun at her when he hears Gumball's stunned "The disco dance party found a new member," from behind them. 

"What?" Fionna asks, not understanding Gumball's weird comment anymore than Pozhar. 

Gumball is still perched on the toilet seat when Pozhar turns to face him, but he's on his knees so that he has the height to see into the sink. He turns off the water and reaches into the sink, pulling out a pink plastic thing that is dripping wet. It must be a toy, Pozhar thinks as its lid swings from its hinge. Gumball looks astonished by it, and his thumbs slowly follow the edge of the box's heart shape. 

Fionna crowds Gumball. "I didn't know you liked Polly Pocket! I still have mine somewhere, we could totally p—Wait, where did she go? She was just in there." 

"She fell down the drain." At Fionna anguished yelp, Gumball shakes his head and draws her into a hug. "It's fine, dear. Really. I'm just happy to have seen her again." Fionna isn't convinced, but Pozhar reads the genuine appreciation in Gumball's voice. When Fionna opens her mouth to protest, Gumball laughs suddenly and hides his face into the crook of Fionna's neck, careful to not disrupt the plastic hair cap crowning his bleaching hair. "You know those things you do as a kid you cannot believe years later? I just... I named her Bubblegum and wanted to be just like her. Gosh, I bought a skirt once because it reminded me of her." 

Gumball might have forgotten that Pozhar is there, because Gumball's admission is as private and absent as the sweet nothings Pozhar whispers to Fionna late at night. But the implication that he should not impose does not stop Pozhar's mouth (acting before his mind can catch him) from saying: "Do you still have it?" 

Gumball glances up, blushing at his slip. It says much about Gumball's character that he doesn't ignore the question as Pozhar fears he might but instead clarifies, "The skirt?" 

Pozhar nods. Fionna's eyes go wide at the exchange unfolding in front of her, her eyes darting back and forth between Pozhar's carefully neutral expression and Gumball's equally stoic façade. The silence grows in the small bathroom, and Gumball tightens his hold on Fionna for a few seconds, but eventually, he hums a yes. 

Pozhar doesn't ask to see Gumball's skirt, Fionna doesn't suggest that Gumball model it, and Gumball doesn't leave the bathroom to go dig it out of his and Marshall Lee's closet. But the want is clear in Gumball's eyes, and he does not hide it from Pozhar. 

It's a start. 

  
  


—

**Author's Note:**

> —[NOW WITH FANART (BY ME)](http://helchron.tumblr.com/post/46985568781/fanart-for-put-a-pretty-polly-in-your-pocket). More fanart linked in the "Inspired" section.
> 
> —Pozhar is Flame Prince and also "fire" in Russian.
> 
> —Marshall Lee’s use of _mami_ : Mami is a femininized endearment in Spanish, used more or less depending on which country you and/or your family hails from. It directly translates to "mommy" but it’s used affectionately toward women and girls, daughters and girlfriends. (Think of how "baby" is used in English.) I heard it a lot growing up in my Dominican household and figured that Marshall Lee would too. Because of my history with "mami" (my dad called me it), I personally cannot deal with it in a romantic and/or sexual setting, but I figured that Marshall Lee probably does not have the same history as I do. When he uses it, it is because it is a femininized endearment, thinks of Gumball in a feminine-from-center way, and means it with the best of intentions.
> 
> —Gumball’s Polly Pocket case: [ [x](http://www.etsy.com/listing/105160327/vintage-polly-pocket-playsets-cases?image_id=359370055) | [x](http://www.etsy.com/listing/105160327/vintage-polly-pocket-playsets-cases?image_id=359361074) ] (and in case those links die out, [ [x](http://oi50.tinypic.com/5wjkpg.jpg) | [x](http://oi48.tinypic.com/ibjkf6.jpg) ]).
> 
> —Bubblegum One and Gumball’s skirt: [[ x ](http://www.polyvore.com/eileen_kirby_layered_tulle_puff/thing?id=24994313)] (backup link, [[ x ](http://oi50.tinypic.com/vzxwzp.jpg)]).
> 
> —Eternal thanks to my editors and cheerleaders, [Steve](http://calciseptine.tumblr.com/), [Heather](http://callunavulgari.tumblr.com/), and for the final leg, [Diae](http://diae.tumblr.com/). Extra love to Steve, who wrote around 500 words of dialogue and description that I then cannibalized for this fic, and who always knows exactly what sections I want to fudge over and shouldn't.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Put a Pretty Polly in Your Pocket](https://archiveofourown.org/works/755519) by [Chibifukurou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chibifukurou/pseuds/Chibifukurou)




End file.
